


Operation Sledgehammer

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Matchmaking, Mycroft's Meddling, Oblivious Sherlock Holmes, POV Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27475906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: Mycroft sees what his stubborn, idiot brother refuses to acknowledge, and takes matters into his own hands. And in the process, begins to see certain things in a new light.
Relationships: Anthea/Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 59
Kudos: 158





	1. The Idea

**Author's Note:**

> Yaaaaay, another WIP! This trope is an oldie, but a goodie, and I needed some humor and fluff in my life. Don't we all? Anyway, I hope you enjoy the result!

Mycroft Holmes prided himself on his ability to see things the vast majority did not see. It was a talent that, after almost five decades upon this earth, he had very nearly perfected. Naturally, there were things that even _he_ would miss, but they were few and far between. One thing he certainly could see, more clearly than anyone, was his little brother’s feelings for a certain pathologist.

Contrary to popular belief, neither he nor Sherlock were fully immune to emotions, although they both endeavored to separate themselves from _sentiment_ , as often—and as thoroughly—as possible. Mycroft tended to be rather more successful, being naturally disposed to dislike people. But the truth of the matter was, the Holmes brothers _did_ feel. They felt altogether more than the rest of the world knew, and certainly more than either of them would ever care to admit.

And yet Sherlock, true to his own stubbornness, attempted to convince the world of his sociopathic status. Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh at the idea; he was no more a sociopath than John Watson! Rather, he had suffered… _trauma_ , in his past, and that trauma, combined with Mycroft’s regrettable encouragement, had led him to believe it was easier, safer, _better_ , to rid himself of all feeling. Thankfully, John’s appearance and continued presence in Sherlock’s life had, for the most part, changed his mind. There was, however, one area he still adamantly refused to acknowledge.

Sighing quietly, Mycroft adjusted his position in his chair, elbows resting on the surface of his desk, hands pressed together and held against his chin. He peered at the file on the desk before him, opened to a page with a photograph and personal details of one Dr. Margaret Alice Hooper. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, she had been under his watchful eye from the first moment they met. It was rather difficult to ignore a woman who, after watching a man thrash the corpse of a deceased colleague with a riding crop, still had the nerve to smile, crack a joke, then invite him for coffee. It took a spectacular idiot _not_ to see that this woman was absolutely perfect for Sherlock Holmes.

Unfortunately, Sherlock _was_ a spectacular idiot, at least when it came to matters of the heart.

The idea became more firmly cemented in Mycroft’s brain after witnessing their interaction on Christmas Eve, less than two years later. CCTV footage of Baker Street showed the little pathologist arriving at 221B, clearly dressed to the nines, bearing bags full of gifts. She had worn a smile on her way into the flat, but upon her exit, wore a much more somber expression. Additionally, when he and Sherlock went to Bart’s to identify Irene Adler’s body, Dr. Hooper bore the same expression, and some very telling body language. She seemed unable to look Sherlock in the eye, fidgeted with her hair and the sleeves of her white coat, and spoke in a quiet, timid voice. Mycroft could only assume Sherlock had done or said something to upset her. Hardly surprising, Sherlock often upset him without even saying a word.

Even more telling, however, was Sherlock’s response. Though Mycroft had not seen every interaction of theirs, he felt confident this was the first time Sherlock had been so gentle with her. His eyes followed her every move, until she revealed the supposed body of Ms. Adler. Even then, his eyes only flickered toward the corpse for a moment, before he hurriedly confirmed the identity and swept out the door behind him.

Admittedly, Mycroft had believed that Sherlock had developed a _tendre_ for the dominatrix as well. His behavior toward her, and his reactions in regards to her, were very similar to those toward Dr. Hooper. And perhaps, in a way, this was true, but considering the later developments in that situation, he did not believe she was of exceptional importance to his brother. Oh, Sherlock cared about her, certainly, enough to save her life (which Mycroft had absolutely no intention of letting him know he was aware of this fact), but it was clear he could never trust her. And trust was something Sherlock valued. No, the Woman was no more than a passing fancy, perhaps a sexual awakening (the very thought made his stomach roll).

Molly Hooper, however, was different. Mycroft had never met a more trustworthy person in the whole of his life—and that included John Watson. She was completely guileless, and fiercely loyal to Sherlock, despite the pain he had caused her. And as she joined him and Sherlock in planning his “death,” Mycroft was immeasurably grateful for that loyalty.

Dr. Hooper’s love endured through the “Fall,” as the rest of the world had taken to calling it. It remained during Sherlock’s two-year absence, persisted through her doomed engagement, and steadied him after the shattering events of Mary Watson’s death and the Culverton Smith case. And, he was reasonably certain, it survived even now, after the horrors their deranged sister concocted for them.

Mycroft sighed, thinking of his conversation with Sherlock earlier that day…

_“Everything is arranged, Sherlock. The helicopter will take you to Sherrinford on Friday next, at the requested time.”_

_“Thank you,” his brother replied, earning a look of shock from Mycroft. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Is everyone going to react this way every time I say or do something 'normal'? Because if that is the case, I’ll go back to being a sociopath.”_

_Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “Rather hard to go back to being something you never were.” He stilled for only a moment, in the process of donning his coat, but continued without responding. Mycroft changed the subject. “Speaking of, erm…_ normal _,” he began cautiously, “have you managed to settle things with all your friends?”_

 _He stared. “Since when do you care about my… what did you call them? Oh, yes,_ goldfish _.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then rolled them a second time. “You’re referring to Molly.”_

_“Well, I was a witness to rather an intense conversation between the two of you. I would imagine there might be some repercussions.”_

_“You imagine wrong,” Sherlock said stiffly. “In fact, things have gone back to the way they were, at Molly’s insistence.”_

_Mycroft raised both eyebrows. “Indeed? She has not demanded an explanation of your dreadful treatment of her?”_

_He glared. “Eurus orchestrated the phone call, she set the parameters, I was simply doing as instructed.”_

_“And I can only imagine how difficult that must have been,” he taunted with a false smile, hiding his genuine concern. “But you forget that Ms. Hooper—”_

_“_ Dr. _Hooper,” Sherlock corrected._

_“—was not privy to that information. From her perspective, you simply called out of the blue and demanded that she figuratively carve her heart out of her chest and hand it to you on a platter.”_

_Sherlock grimaced. “I never took you for a poet, Mycroft. Going soft in your old age?”_

_Ignoring his jibe, Mycroft stuck to the topic at hand. “Well, Sherlock?”_

_Sherlock’s lips thinned with irritation. “She asked me not to talk about it at all, actually. Demanded it, in fact. Just as well, considering I can't give her what she wants. It's... better this way."_

Mycroft had watched his brother's face carefully as he spoke these words. Really, it was only too easy to see that he didn't mean a word of what he'd just said. Whether he realized it or not, Sherlock was already too far gone to simply return to the the way things were. Eventually, something would happen, bringing the truth to light, and either they would see sense and come together, or the fallout would destroy them.

 _That_ , he thought with a smirk, _is where I come in._

"Anthea," he called into the intercom, and a moment later, the door swung open and his trusted assistant appeared.

"Sir?" she replied dutifully.

"I believe it is time."

"Time for...?" she prompted in obvious confusing.

Mycroft’s smirk stretched almost into a grin. "Operation Sledgehammer."

Her eyes widened. "Sir, that... that was a joke. We—ahem," she cleared her throat in an uncharacteristic display of discomfort, "we were a bit drunk, after all."

"Yes," he allowed, recalling the evening in question with some discomfort of his own, "but your idea had some merit, and I'm afraid it is now a necessity."

She remained silent for a moment, watching him closely. "You're serious about this."

"Perfectly serious," he confirmed, and handed her the file on Molly Hooper, with a new document attached to the cover. "I would like to put this into motion immediately."

Anthea read in silence, then looked at him with furrowed brows. "You're sure this will work?"

He nodded solemnly. "I am. More than that, I am certain nothing else _will_."

She hesitated only a moment, then straightened her posture and smiled. "I'll see to the arrangements. Will there be anything else, sir?"

His shoulders relaxed slightly, relieved to have her on board. Of course, he could always order her to comply, but despite the opinions of his peers and his subordinates, Mycroft was no tyrant. He was grateful to have Anthea's full cooperation.

"Not at the moment. Thank you, Anthea." She nodded her head once, and exited the room.

Mycroft could not help the satisfied smirk that crept up yet again. The plans were in place, the cogs began to turn. Sherlock Holmes would never know what hit him.


	2. The Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah… there’s more than a hint of Mythea. I might as well add it to my ship tags. Anyhoo, here’s Chapter 2!

_37 hours after Sherrinford…_

“Anthea, you are a godsend,” Mycroft sighed as he slid into the backseat of the sleek town car. He nodded to the driver, who quickly pulled away from the kerb, leaving the hospital behind. _At last_ , he thought with relief.

The woman in question, already seated and texting rapidly, smiled without looking at him. “I know, sir.”

“If you require anything, be it additional pay or an extended holiday, it is yours without question.”

She laughed quietly and finally tucked her mobile into her handbag, meeting his eyes with a mischievous look in her own. “And what would you do if I went on holiday, sir?”

Mycroft did not answer, but smiled and offered his thanks again. In truth, he hardly knew himself what he would do without her. Anthea’s abilities and intelligence went far above her position. If she chose, she could excel easily in politics, the law, or in any field she desired. She was capable of greatness… yet she remained his assistant, and Mycroft could not fathom why. He had never broached the subject with her, as she was invaluable to him as both an assistant and the closest thing he had to a friend. Still, he did wonder…

Well. A question for another day, he wasn’t about to give her the idea now to spread her wings. If ever there was a time when he needed her assistance, it was now. And clearly, she knew it just as well as he.

The car arrived at his home more quickly than expected, and certainly not a moment too soon. Mycroft chose not to comment as led him inside, past the sitting room, and directly into his study. She gestured for him to seat himself in one of the armchairs, then retrieved a key from within her bag and unlocked his liquor cabinet. He did not often imbibe, preferring the clarity of soberness to the fog of intoxication, but he knew even before he had left the hospital that this would be one of those rare occasions. After a brief search, she produced a bottle of Rémy Martin and a pair of glasses.

Four glasses later (on his part, Anthea had cut herself off after two), Mycroft felt rather warm and groggy, and in much better spirits. He surprised himself by opening up to his assistant, trusting her discretion implicitly, and speaking plainly about everything that had occurred. Anthea listened with all the patience of a saint, offering a silent support he hadn’t known he needed.

As Mycroft ran out of things to say, he heaved a sigh, his body sagging with relief from the tension he had borne for decades. “I cannot possibly thank you enough, Anthea,” he murmured, his eyelids fluttering against the weight of exhaustion.

“I know, sir,” she grinned in response. “But you don’t have to.” He regarded her with some surprise, but again chose not to comment. Fortunately, she chose that moment to change the subject. “What about your brother? Should I have someone keep an eye on him?”

The delicacy with which she spoke nearly made him laugh. Yes, if ever there were a _danger night_ for Sherlock, it would certainly be tonight. And yet… he found himself shaking his head. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Between John Watson and Dr. Hooper, he has all the supervision he needs.”

Anthea frowned at this. “But… Dr. Hooper is in Liverpool.”

Mycroft sat up straight, his brow furrowing. “Liverpool?”

“Visiting an aunt, I believe,” she reported. “Left late last night.”

“Have you any idea of when she will return?”

Dutifully, she unlocked her phone and tapped on the screen a few times. “Seems she’s staying in her aunt’s home, rather than a hotel, but she hasn’t canceled any upcoming shifts at Bart’s. Due back on Monday, at the usual time.”

He sighed, releasing the sudden panic that had seized him. “Do inform me if that changes.”

Anthea met his eyes again, still wearing that frown. “You think she might leave permanently?”

“Considering that dreadful phone call, it would not come as a shock. And if she chose to leave… I fear it might break him.”

Her eyes widened. “You believe he really does love her,” she stated, rather than questioned.

Mycroft gave a firm nod. “I believe he has loved her almost from the moment he met her. He would deny it, of course—in fact, I’m not certain he knows it himself—but his behavior toward her is… _telling_.” He grew quiet for a moment. “Then again… perhaps her absence could be a good thing.”

“Really?”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Yes… this could be exactly the sort of nudge he needs.”

Anthea snorted. “Forget a nudge, he needs to be hit over the head with a sledgehammer.” Anthea paused and giggled a bit. “‘Operation Sledgehammer’ has a nice ring to it.”

One imperious brow quirked up. “Too much brandy, I think.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed with a shrug. “I’m right, though.”

“About Sherlock, or about ‘Operation Sledgehammer’?”

She grinned. “Both.”

* * *

_Two days later…_

“You’re absolutely certain about this?”

“I would have thought _you_ would be absolutely certain,” Mycroft countered. “It was, after all, your idea.”

Anthea scrunched her nose. “No, the _name_ was my idea. And I was more than a bit tipsy when I came up with it.”

“Irrelevant,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The fact of the matter is, you _were_ right. Sherlock would miss, or ignore, any subtle nudge we tried to give him. This calls for something more drastic. It’s time to hit him over the head with a sledgehammer.”

Her lips curled a bit at the edges, but she smothered the threatening grin. “This certainly is a sledgehammer, sir. Poor boy is in for quite a headache.”

“He’ll manage,” Mycroft stated confidently.

“Will he?”

He glanced at his assistant—whom he was beginning to see as _more_ than that—and gave her a smile. “I have faith in him.”

Anthea’s jaw dropped, her mouth forming an “O” shape. “You? _Faith?_ ”

“In Sherlock, yes,” he bristled. “Our relationship may not be the healthiest, but I do _know_ my little brother. I know how terribly stubborn he can be… and I believe, in this case, that will work to our advantage. And _his_.”

She chewed on her lip. “And if it doesn’t?”

“It _will_ ,” he asserted, hoping his own doubts remained well hidden under the composed mask he had worn since his teen years.

Before Anthea could dispute the matter, her phone buzzed in her hand. She quickly answered the incoming call. “Anthea James… Hello, Dr. Stamford… yes, he should arrive sometime after one o’clock. The police will be calling him in…” she glanced at her wristwatch, “…twenty minutes, at the most.” Anthea was quiet as she listened, then laughed softly. “Don’t worry, Dr. Stamford. You won’t be _lying_ to him, not really.” Another moment of silence. “I understand. Just keep in mind that this is for Molly as much as it is for Sherlock.”

Mycroft listened to her half of the conversation, impressed with her adept handling of the anxious doctor’s arguments. She continued to settle his nerves with perfectly chosen words, until the call ended with a smile and a, “Thank you very much, Dr. Stamford.”

“Well done,” he praised her as she disconnected the call.

“First you have faith and now you’re complimenting my work?” She smirked at him. “Sherrinford changed you, Mycroft Holmes.”

He held her gaze, his expression turning serious. “You’ve no idea.”

Something shifted in her eyes, and she swallowed before looking back at her phone. “Yes, well… the CCTV will transmit directly to your desk, sir. Detective Inspector Lestrade is on board, and enthusiastic. I don’t foresee any difficulties.”

Mycroft wondered at her sudden formality, but as was becoming habit where Anthea was concerned, said nothing. “Excellent. Thank you,” he added, and found it unusually easy to say the words to her. She nodded her head in response, and quietly slipped out of the office.

His eyes lingered on the spot she had vacated for a moment, considering the conversation between them. Though his memories of their shared drink (very well, _drinks_ ) following his release from hospital were a bit clouded, they were nonetheless _there_. His mind could no more banish them than it could the reluctant affection he felt toward his parents, his brother… and even his sister, despite her many flaws. It was that affection, after all, which had prevented him from doing the one thing that would permanently rid the world of the danger she posed. He could not, _would_ not, end her life… not for the world.

Lost in his thoughts, Mycroft almost missed the quiet ping from his computer as the aforementioned CCTV feed popped up. He blinked those thoughts away, and leaned forward, eyes trained on the screen…


	3. The Execution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to keep this entirely in Mycroft’s POV, but I wanted to get closer to the scene at hand. Brace yourselves, friends, it’s about to get real! XD

Mike Stamford set his mobile on the desk and wiped a bit of perspiration from his brow. _These Holmeses will be the death of me_ , he thought to himself. Between Sherlock and his usual… Sherlock-ness, and his older brother breathing down his neck (via his assistant, he’d never actually spoken to the man directly), it was a miracle he hadn’t suffered a heart attack by now. He had the distant thought that perhaps he should see a cardiologist and have things checked, just in case. That would have to wait, though, as he had more pressing matters at hand.

 _This is for Molly_ , he told himself, just as Anthea had done. _Molly deserves some happiness_.

And Lord, did she ever! Molly’s life had been rather turned upside down in the past few years, ever since Sherlock waltzed in and took it over. He liked Sherlock, even though he was a bit of a prick at times, but the man did have a knack for manipulating situations, and people, to suit his needs. That, combined with Molly’s kind and generous nature, made it nearly impossible for her to escape him. Of course, it didn’t help that she was in love with him. Poor girl, it had been obvious within weeks of their first meeting that she was well and truly lost.

Mike sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. He loved Molly like a sister, but she really did have the most atrocious taste in men. First, there was _Jim from IT_ , who turned out to be that bastard Moriarty. God, he couldn’t imagine what Molly must have felt in finding out her ex was a criminal mastermind. He supposed that was what led her to Tom the Brainless Ponce. She wanted someone who was as far from that as possible. Well, she found it, in the form of one of the stupidest, most boring people Mike had ever met—and this coming from a man who knew he was fairly stupid and boring himself! Tom had lasted longer than anyone expected, but once Sherlock came back from the dead, they all knew it was a matter of time.

 _Well, at least now we know the git loves her back_ , he mused, smiling a bit to himself. He certainly hadn’t seen it coming, but he supposed if anyone would know, it would be his brother. And the plan he laid out to kick Sherlock’s arse into gear was rather effective. Still, Mike couldn’t help but feel a bit anxious about the part he would play—he never had been very good at lying—but kept repeating the mantra in his head: _This is for Molly_.

He could do it. He _would_ do it. For Molly.

Some time later, Mike got the expected text from Greg Lestrade, letting him know Sherlock was on his way. Greg was in the know as well, and would have been careful not to mention Molly’s absence, setting the stage for the next act. Mike wished, for perhaps the first time in his life, that he’d done a bit of theatre in school. He was rubbish at this, and he felt a bit of sweat on his brow again. He got up and crossed the room to the thermostat, bringing the temp down a few ticks, and after a minute or two, the cool breeze of the air-con gave him sweet relief.

 _This is for Molly_.

He heard Sherlock before he saw him, spouting off to whoever was with him—probably John—and took a deep breath to prepare himself. The familiar voice got louder as he approached the lab, until the door swung open, and he swept through it in his usual dramatic fashion. Mike barely heard what he was saying, still anxiously waiting for the moment Sherlock realized Molly wasn’t there.

It came sooner than expected. Once through the door, Sherlock turned directly toward him, raising himself to his full height, and his eyes landed on Mike. His mouth hung open with the words that had stopped in his throat. The shock in his face didn’t last long, very quickly giving way to confused annoyance. “Stamford,” he greeted in as cordial a voice as one could expect from Sherlock Holmes. “You don’t normally work in the lab.”

“Short-handed today, I’m afraid,” he shrugged, trying for nonchalance and praying it worked. John appeared a moment later, and Mike gave a friendly smile. “What can I help you chaps with?”

“Where is Molly?” Sherlock asked abruptly.

 _This is it_. “She’s… um… not coming in today.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “The air-conditioning has been turned on, despite the fact that it’s barely 18 degrees outside, in fact it might possibly be warmer out there than in this room, and yet you have a sheen of perspiration on your forehead and upper lip. If that weren’t already the most obvious tell imaginable, the bouncing of your leg would certainly have confirmed it. You are either lying or hiding something, and you know me well enough to know I would notice the tells, so you tried, unsuccessfully, to hide the obvious. Now that’s out of the way, I’ll ask you just once more. _Where is Molly?_ ”

Mike took a breath, slowly let it out, then answered, “I don’t know where she is.” Which _was_ true, all Molly had said was that she needed Friday off for a personal day, and he hadn’t pressed for information. But as he watched Sherlock go silent and still, and John just behind him doing the same, it certainly _felt_ like a lie.

“When will she be back?” he asked through his teeth.

He swallowed. “I don’t know that either. The message she left was a bit garbled, just something about ‘time away’ and ‘needing distance.’ I tried to call her back, but her phone was turned off.” That was _mostly_ true. The message had been clearer than he was letting on, and she wrapped it up with, _If you need me, send an email, I’ll be turning my phone off for a while_.

“Let me hear it,” Sherlock demanded, stepping forward and holding out a hand. “The message, let me hear it!”

“Sherlock,” John chimed in, “we don’t have time! Greg’s waiting for this—”

“Hang Greg and his idiotic, barely-a-six case!” he shouted back, making both other men jump in surprise. Ignoring them, he whipped out his own phone and quickly dialed what Mike assumed was Molly’s phone number. Both he and John fell quiet, listening to the quiet answering message that never failed to make him laugh. _Hi, this is Molly, at the ‘dead centre’ of town. Leave a message_.”

Sherlock’s jaw twitched and he turned back to Mike. “Did she—" his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat before trying again. "Did she say she _would_ be coming back?”

Anthea had been very clear about this part, and he was awfully glad of that. She’d instructed him to keep silent, look nervous, and make it look like he was trying to find the right words to tell him. And that’s what he did. The looking nervous part wasn’t a challenge at all, he’d been on tenterhooks all day. Additionally, he pursed his lips, opening them a time or two, always shutting them a moment after. Just as Anthea predicted, his silence spoke for him, and Sherlock’s eyes flickered, unseeing, looking as if he were flipping frantically through file after file— _Mind palace_ , he remembered. After several tense seconds, he growled and pivoted, storming out of the room.

John’s head reared back as he stared at the now vacant spot Sherlock had been standing. Mike waited for him to rush off after his friend, but he didn’t move. Finally, when John looked at him again, he said, “Well… took him long enough.”

Mike’s eyes widened. “Sorry?”

He grinned. “When you know the Holmes family as well as I do, you learn to recognize their signature. And _this_ —” he made a circling gesture with his hand, “—has Mycroft written all over it.”

* * *

In his office, Mycroft Holmes sat back in his chair, a satisfied smirk breaking out across his face as his mobile phone began to vibrate. He allowed himself a brief chuckle of amusement before accepting the call and pressing the phone to his ear. “Yes, Sherlock, what is it?”

“ _Where. Is. She?_ ” he ground out.

“Where is whom, Sherlock?”

“You know damn well who, stop playing games! I know you’re watching her, because _I asked you to!_ ”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the dramatics. “Ah, you’re referring to Miss Hooper?”

“ _Doctor_ Hooper!”

“Yes, very well, _Doctor_ Hooper. I would be happy to tell you, Sherlock, _if_ you stop shouting at me as if I were hiding her away in my own house.” He counted four seconds of near-silence, the only sound being a long, ragged breath drawn from the other line. “Allow me to assure you that she is neither ill nor injured, nor has she been abducted or even threatened.” Sherlock heaved a sigh, clearly relieved, to which, under normal circumstances, Mycroft would have taken offence. Thus, he said in an irritable voice, “Really, Sherlock, you are rather melodramatic, aren’t you? You would have been informed if she had been in any danger.”

“Thank you for the reassurance, now for the love of God, _tell me where she is!_ ”

 _Not just yet._ “Tread carefully, brother mine,” he warned, his voice low and tense. Another sigh, of annoyance this time. “Have you not tried to phone her? I would have thought that would be your first course of action. After all, she is your _friend_ ,” he said the word with careful emphasis.

“Of course I phoned her, I am not an idiot!”

“No?” he countered

“ _MYCROFT!_ ”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock!” he half-shouted back. He could almost see the stunned expression on Sherlock’s face as he fell silent. “Have you finished?” he asked after a few moments. The silence remained. “Thank you. Ah, good, Anthea,” he greeted his assistant as she entered the room right on time. “What are Miss— _Doctor_ —” he corrected himself mid-sentence, knowing full well the reaction it would provoke in Sherlock, “—Molly Hooper’s whereabouts?”

She smiled at him, though her voice remained impassive. “Is there a danger, sir? Shall I send a team in?”

“Thank you, no, just her current location.”

“Yes, sir,” Anthea lifted her eyes and wagged her head for a few beats, allowing Sherlock to believe she was looking up information she already had. Mycroft stifled a laugh with his fist at her antics. “Hm… at the moment, she is in the University of Liverpool. One of our men says she looked like was dressed for an interview.” 

_A perfectly delivered lie_. Mycroft nodded his approval, before adopting the tone of a concerned elder brother. “Sherlock?”

“Where is she staying?” he asked an a voice that might _almost_ have been considered calm.

Mycroft smiled at the change in his brother’s demeanor; _now_ he was ready. He repeated the question to Anthea, who duly replied, “She’s staying with her aunt in Liverpool, number 13 Haversham Road.”

Having heard for himself, Sherlock said, “Thank her for me, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock—”

The line went dead. The same satisfied smirk he had worn earlier resumed its place as he set the mobile down. He looked at Anthea, who wore a similar expression, rightfully so. "I believe we may consider the operation a success, my dear."

She quirked one perfectly shaped brow. "You don't want to listen in on the bug i planted?"

It was tempting, if only because Mycroft hated to leave anything unfinished or uncertain, but he shook his head. "Rather unnecessary, I think. Everything is in place, and I have full confidence that events will unfold just as predicted. And with that in mind, I think Doctor Hooper is owed a bit of privacy. Besides," he added with a grimace, "I have no desire to listen to my brother's _romantic overtures_."

Anthea did not laugh at this, but watched him closely, with a curious tilt of her head. "I believe you don't want to hear their conversation, or any telltale sounds that follow it." She smiled briefly at his frown of revulsion, walking toward him and perching herself at the edge of his desk. "But I think that's your only real objection. You, Mycroft Holmes," she leaned in conspiratorially, "are a closet romantic."

The adamant denial was at the tip of his tongue, but before he had opened his mouth to voice it, Anthea's eyes flicked down to his lips. It was quick, so quick that anyone else might have missed it, or mistaken it. But Mycroft was not anyone else. He noticed things... and at the moment, he was noticing the dryness of his mouth, the quickening of his pulse, and the inexplicable urge to pull her closer.

Before he could consider that urge, much less act upon it, Anthea straightened and strode from the room, wearing that smile all the way out the door.

 _Interesting_ , Mycroft thought, and pressed his hands together, leaning his elbows on the desk and resting his fingers against his lips. Somehow, he seemed to find a measure of comfort in the pressure applied to that particular area. _Interesting_ , he thought again, and began a careful analysis of the data in his mind. Perhaps he and Sherlock had more in common than he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, what fun! How do you think it's going to go with Sherlock and Molly? And what on earth is Mycroft going to do about these perplexing urges? Hmm, I wonder... 😉 Thanks for reading!


	4. The Denouement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re here! At last, the much-awaited Sherlolly confrontation! Well, after some quick (but quality) Johntent. This is the home stretch, just one more chapter till the end. Enjoy!

John stepped into his flat cautiously, uncertain what state his best friend would be in. He found him slumped in a chair, head resting against the back of it, with a suitcase propped open on the floor beside him, empty but for a single shirt, a pair of trousers, and a toothbrush. Having spoken with Mike Stamford as he explained the whole of the plan, it wasn’t difficult to piece everything together. Sherlock believed, due to Mycroft’s intervention, that Molly was leaving London for good, and had been planning to sweep in and bring her back home… but something seemed to have changed his mind, or at least given him pause, and John had a feeling he knew just what he was thinking.

He cleared his throat in an attempt to get Sherlock’s attention, but he continued to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, John, I heard you,” he grumbled.

John allowed a brief grin. “Going somewhere?” No response. “Shall I deduce it, then?”

“By all means,” he drawled, lifting his head just enough to scowl at him. “Do dazzle me with your newfound powers of deduction.”

Ignoring Sherlock’s acidic tone, John began, “Well, from what Stamford said, it sounds like there’s a possibility that Molly may be relocating. I _deduce_ that, until maybe a few minutes ago, you were planning to find her and bring her back. But, like any man would, you’ve started to doubt yourself. You’re wondering if you can convince her to stay, if you’re good enough for her, if you should just let her walk away, even though the thought makes you sick.”

Sherlock stiffened, but didn’t speak, or even look at him. Sighing, John crossed the room and sat in the chair opposite him. “Sherlock… I know things have been… well, ‘difficult’ seems like the understatement of the century. You’ve been through hell these past few days, and I can’t imagine how that feels. But I _do_ know how it feels to love a woman…” he paused as his eyes burned with tears, “…and then to lose her. It’s… it’s the kind of agony I wouldn’t wish on anyone, least of all my best friend.”

John bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut, pushing those tears back where they came from. Once he’d managed that, he lifted his head and looked at Sherlock again, who looked as though he had a few tears of his own. Squaring his shoulders, John delivered the final blow. “I may have had the wrong woman in mind before, but what I said to you still applies. That chance doesn’t last forever. _Take it_. While you still can.”

With nothing more to say, John left the room, heading to the nursery to check on Rosie. His beautiful little girl still slept peacefully in her cot, one little hand curled around the edge of her pink blanket. John’s eyes blurred with a fresh wave of tears; she looked so much like Mary already. He hoped she would turn out to be just as brilliant, too. But whatever came their way, he was going to love her with everything he had.

The sound of frantic footsteps caught his attention, followed by the slam of the front door. John hurried to the window and peered out just in time to see Sherlock hail a cab, suitcase in hand. He grinned, then went back over to Rosie, gently stroking her soft, blonde curls. “Well, sweetheart,” he whispered, “looks like your godfather has _finally_ gotten his head out of his arse.”

* * *

Sherlock’s hands refused to be still as the train rushed through the countryside. His mind, his heart, his breath all raced with the utmost urgency. It was all he could do to remain seated and not storm his way to the engine and demand that the train move faster. Every minute that passed felt like a lifetime, and somehow seemed to pull him farther and farther away from his objective… from _her_.

It might not have been an issue, had he not heard Molly herself mention the opening at the university, just days before Sherrinford. She had not indicated that she, herself, hoped to fill the position, but she hadn’t said she _wasn’t_ interested, either. And Sherlock had assumed her attachment to London—to _him_ , he’d thought selfishly—would be enough to keep her in London. But then the phone call… and the tentative, stilted return to almost-normal. Suddenly, he was not so certain that she would always be at his side. The realization hit him like a jab to the stomach, followed by a kick to the groin. He couldn’t let her go. Perhaps it _was_ selfish, but the idea of life without her was more than he could bear.

John’s words echoed in his head: _That chance doesn’t last forever. Take it. While you still can_. He remembered the first conversation in which he’d used a similar phrase. The Woman had texted him, as she often did, and was indeed wishing him a happy birthday. Ridiculous, really, he rarely celebrated his birthday, but the text came anyway, and at just the wrong moment. Sherlock would admit, privately of course, that it did _look_ as though he held feelings for the Woman. _Irene_ _Adler_ , he corrected himself. _Better stop calling her that_. After all, she wasn’t the woman he wanted. That honor, dubious as it was, belonged to Molly.

_Molly_.

Thinking of her sent his heart fluttering like a teenager’s. God, he loved her! How stupid he’d been to think things could just go back to the way they were! Why on earth had he even wanted that? Well… in all honesty, he hadn’t known _what_ he wanted. The current state of their friendship had been at Molly’s request, and he had been only too eager to accept and get on with life. Not that he blamed her for it. How could he blame her for trying to preserve her heart? No, he blamed himself, for not having seen it sooner, and for all the heartache she’d endured because of him.

For this reason, he had considered letting her go. She would undoubtedly be better off with someone more like Meat Dagger (though with a few more brain cells), rather than the complicated wreck of a man he had become. Thankfully, John had stepped in and given him the what-for when he’d needed it most. With his encouragement, Sherlock finally came to a concrete decision. Molly may very well turn him out onto the streets with a scowl and a few choice words, but he had to try. He had to take the chance.

And if she refused to come back to London… well, Liverpool had criminals, too. Surely Lestrade had a few contacts, and would put in a good word with the local force. Liverpool was a far cry from London, but he could adjust, if it meant he could be with her. _Anything_ for her.

He sounded like a complete sop.

_He didn’t care_.

Molly meant everything to him. And he’d be damned if he let her get away without a fight.

* * *

“Molly? _Molly!_ ”

She snapped out of a stupor she hadn’t realized she’d fallen into, meeting the concerned eyes of her aunt. “Oh, um… sorry, Aunt Colleen, I was…”

“Woolgathering,” the elder woman finished for her with an understanding smile.

Molly gave a quiet, self-deprecating laugh, then took a bite of whatever was on her plate. _Baron of beef_ , she realized, then took another bite. Aunt Colleen had always been a wonderful cook, and tonight she’d outdone herself. Baron of beef, mashed potatoes, hot buttered scones, and a bottle of Molly’s favorite wine. Were she a bit more present in the situation, she might have wondered if Aunt Colleen were trying to butter her up… which she _was_.

“Molly,” she began, setting her knife and fork on the plate. “You know I love you, and I’m very happy you came to visit me.”

“Me too,” Molly replied with an absent smile.

“ _But_ ,” she went on, finally earning her niece’s undivided attention, “I think your reasons for coming here went beyond a desire for a nice holiday and a change of pace. And considering how distracted and mopey you’ve been, I’d wager it has to do with a man.”

With a visible wince, Molly’s eyes slammed shut. _Bugger_. “Aunt—”

“Hush, dear,” she interrupted. “Now, I don’t know who he is, or what he’s done, but I can see that you’re hurting. And you have every right to be angry, to wallow in a bit of misery for a day or two, maybe even give him a slap the next time you see him. As long as you pick yourself back up and keep moving forward.”

“I am,” Molly insisted.

Aunt Colleen raised one grey eyebrow. “Are you? Because it looks to me as though you’re running away.” Molly opened her mouth to protest, but her aunt lifted a hand to silence her. “Just listen to me, please. I know how it feels to love someone you think will never love you back. I also know how it feels to regret not speaking, not taking action, out of fear. Love is truly terrifying, an enormous risk to take, but it's _absolutely_ worth it. Maybe this man doesn’t love you, but maybe he _does_. How will you know if you don’t ask him?”

“You don’t know the situation, Aunt,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she felt a headache coming on. “You don’t know what he did.”

“No, but I know _you_. And I know that if you didn’t love him, completely, deeply, with every part of your soul, you wouldn’t have run away in the first place.”

“I’m not—”

“Hush,” she admonished again. “That kind of love happens _once_ , if you’re fortunate. Are you truly willing to throw that chance away, simply because you’re too frightened to try?”

_Ouch_. Molly winced again, and tears sprang to her eyes. “What if he doesn’t…?” she trailed off, her voice thick with emotion.

“What if he _does?_ ” her aunt countered. Molly had no response as the fear and grief and anger threatened to consume her again. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing a trembling hand against her lips. The sound of Aunt Colleen’s chair moving dimly registered, followed a moment later by her kind arms pulling her into a warm embrace. “There now, love,” she whispered, rubbing her open palm in a comforting circle over Molly’s back. “If he doesn’t love you, he’s an idiot, and I’ll castrate him myself.”

Molly gave a watery laugh. “Not if I do it first.”

Aunt Colleen’s arms tightened around her. “That’s my girl.”

* * *

A few hours later, their dinner having been (eventually) eaten, and the washing up finished, the two of them shared another hug, before Aunt Colleen made her way upstairs to her bedroom for an early night’s sleep.

Molly lingered in the kitchen, too restless to sleep just yet, and set about making tea for herself. She thought back to the tea she’d made, and subsequently abandoned, that horrible day. Of course she wondered why he’d… how he could have… God, she couldn't even finish the sentence, it was still so raw. And the chances of that being a pleasant explanation were slim to none. That was why Molly had refused to let Sherlock talk about it.

He’d come to her that night, or rather in the wee hours of the morning, asking for her permission to explain. She told him no, that she’d rather forget it happened and go back to the way things had been. Looking back, now that time had somewhat cleared her head, she realized two things. One, Sherlock _never_ asked for permission for anything, let alone to offer any kind of explanation. And two, he had looked… _broken_. Desperate, even. At the time, she had dismissed it as his reaction to the possibility of losing lab privileges at Bart’s. (She couldn’t take his privileges away, even if she wanted to, Mycroft had seen to that.) So she pushed him away, and asked Mike for some time off.

Damn it. She _was_ running away. Molly sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted. Perhaps she should go to bed after all. Mind made up, she cradled her cuppa in both hands and shuffled her way toward the guest room.

Then there was a knock at the front door.

Molly frowned, wondering who in their right mind would come calling at this hour. She thought about getting her aunt, but decided against it, not wanting to disturb her. Setting her tea on a nearby table, she stepped quickly across the sitting room and opened the door. Her jaw dropped. “ _Sherlock?_ ”

Sure enough, there stood Sherlock Holmes, looking every bit as frazzled as he had that night. His eyes widened as he saw her, probably having expected her aunt to answer the door. Molly watched his throat work as he swallowed, trying very hard not to think about kissing his Adam’s apple. _Focus!_ “What are you doing here?”

He hesitated for only a moment before his eyes sharpened with determination. “Taking a chance,” he muttered cryptically. But before Molly could ask him to expand on that, his hands shot out toward her, cradling her face between them as he planted a kiss on her lips.

He was _kissing_ her.

Sherlock Holmes was kissing _her!_

Molly’s insides warmed and her legs threatened to give out from the sensory overload. Just as she started to lose herself in the kiss, it came to an end. Sherlock parted his lips from hers and heaved a sigh, as if he’d been carrying a massive weight and had finally shucked it off. “Please come back to London,” he whispered. “Don’t take the job. Stay at Bart’s. Stay with _me_.”

The words rattled about aimlessly in her head for a few moments, before they finally registered, and she reared her head back. “What job?”

Sherlock blinked a few times in confusion. “The teaching position at the university. The one you interviewed for.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Sherlock, I didn’t go to any interview.”

He blinked again, his frown deepening as he took a step back. “You didn’t?”

“No,” she shook her head with a bemused smile. “Why would I leave Bart’s when it’s been my dream to work there since I was nineteen years old? I _did_ , however, go visit an old friend and schoolmate of mine, who just took the position herself.”

“But… I thought… oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, the tension in his face giving way to annoyance. “Bloody Mycroft, I should have known. The clues were all there, I just— _oh, God._ ” Sherlock hung his head. “I really am a spectacular idiot.”

“Sherlock?”

“I was so busy panicking, I didn’t stop to look at the facts. But then, he must have known that would happen, and put the pieces in place. Stamford, Lestrade, John—diabolical, Mycroft, even for you—”

“ _Sherlock!_ ” His head shot up in surprise, the look on his face so comical, she couldn’t hold back a quiet laugh. “Can we go back to the part where you were kissing me?”

His expression softened, and he gave a tentative smile. He reached for her again, and her lips parted in anticipation, but he paused just a breath away, his face serious. “I love you, Molly,” he said on an exhale, and she felt herself grinning like a fool. “I meant it then, and I mean it now. I’ll say it again, as many times as you want me to. Because it’s true… it’s always been true.”

Unable to stand it any longer, Molly launched herself at him, planting a bruising kiss on his lips. He returned it with all the passion and fervor she knew he was capable of, and the effect left her feeling rather lightheaded. As if reading her mind, his arms slid around her waist, and he hoisted her up off her feet. The new angle allowed them to deepen the kiss, and Molly’s mind went utterly blank. Everything else ceased to exist, every drop of her attention being soaked up by the impossible man who had stolen her heart long ago. The man who had finally, _finally_ offered his in return, and was now kissing her as if his life depended on it.

_He loved her_.

Sherlock broke free suddenly, his breath coming in labored pants. “Bloody hell,” he murmured, eyes clouded with lust. “That’s better than any high I’ve ever experienced.”

Molly giggled and carded her fingers through his hair, loving the groan of desire it elicited from him. In the sauciest purr she could manage, she said, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”


	5. The Conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD I ACTUALLY FINISHED IT!!! There’s something to be said for forcing yourself to maintain a schedule. And that’s what I intend to do, from here on out. Gotta finish all these WIPs. Anyway, thank you so much for reading, and here is the final chapter!

_Three weeks later…_

Sherlock strode purposefully toward the morgue, with John at his heels, struggling to match his pace. He slowed a fraction, just enough for him to catch up, but kept his focus on the path ahead of him. As they approached the doors, he allowed himself a tiny, brief smile, before schooling his features and bursting in with his usual dramatic fashion. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

Inside, Molly and Lestrade were waiting for them, looking up at their arrival. Sherlock focused on Molly, the light that danced in her eyes as she saw him, the subtle flush of red beneath her porcelain skin, the smile that stretched across her face. His own lips betrayed him, pulling into an involuntary grin. _So much for my reputation_ , he mused, but decided he didn’t care. In two quick strides, he was toe-to-toe with her, and pressing his smiling mouth to hers. He’d thought he would feel awkward with public displays of affection, but he found he rather enjoyed the looks of shock they received from whoever saw them.

Like the one Lestrade wore now.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, eyes wide and mouth gaping. “When did this happen?”

“Three weeks ago,” Molly answered, while at the same time, Sherlock said, “Seven years ago.” They looked at each other again, and Molly raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t been kissing me for seven years, Sherlock. Believe me, I’d know.”

“Ah, but I _have_ , just not on the lips.”

“Doesn’t count.”

He frowned. “Since when?”

“Since _always._ ”

“Hm. Still, I’ve been in love with you all this time, that ought to count for something.”

“Aww,” Molly cooed, grinning widely. “I love you, too.”

John cleared his throat. “You two are sickening. And there is a dead body present.”

Sherlock gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh, he doesn’t mind.”

“I do,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

Molly rewarded Sherlock with a brief kiss, before stepping away, and rattling off details of the corpse. He watched her for a moment, admiring the way she seamlessly transitioned into the competent professional she was. Then, he turned his attention to the corpse as well, focusing once more on the matter at hand. The victim in question was a businessman in his late forties, no wife but at least three illegitimate children. For his part, Sherlock was leaning toward one of the mothers, but there seemed to be no motive. Not yet, at least. He would find it.

In the meantime, he passed what he could on to Lestrade, and the inspector left with his thanks and a crooked smile, glancing between him and Molly. John followed Lestrade, glancing over his shoulder and mouthing, _“Behave!”_ as he walked out.

No sooner had the door closed than he swept Molly up into his arms and kissed her exuberantly. Molly giggled against his lips. “You’re awfully—” he interrupted her with another kiss, “—demonstrative today.”

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured against her lips.

“Sherlock, it’s been all of twelve hours since we were last together.”

“Exactly,” he pouted.

Shaking her head with a fond smile, Molly reached up and brushed at the curls on his forehead. “Never thought _you_ would be the clingy one in this relationship.”

Despite her lighthearted tone, his eyes were serious. “I have to make up for lost time, don’t I?”

“No, you don’t,” she insisted. “We’ve discussed this already, Sherlock. No regrets, no dwelling on the past.” Molly held his face between her hands. “I don’t care how long it took us to get here, we’re _here_. We’re together. And that’s what matters.”

Sherlock’s arms tightened around her. “You’re right. No more wasted time.”

Molly nodded, then pulled his head toward her, capturing his perfect lips with hers. He responded eagerly, opening his mouth to her and engaging hers in a sensual tango that never failed to leave her breathless. Before they could get carried away, she pulled away and gently eased his grip on her. “There’ll be time for that later. But now I’d best get back to work. And you’ve got a murder to solve,” she reminded him.

He feigned a sigh of annoyance. “If I must. I’ll see you tonight.”

And with a final, quick kiss, he strode out of the morgue as dramatically as he had come in. Molly grinned as she watched him leave, feeling the warm glow of happiness settle over her. Her life had certainly taken a turn these past few weeks, and most definitely for the better. Had someone told her even a month ago that she would soon be in a relationship with the man she’d loved unrequitedly for more years than she’d cared to admit—and furthermore, that her love had not been so unrequited after all—she would have laughed in their face. And yet, here she was, the happiest she had ever been in her life.

At that moment, Molly could have sworn someone had put their arms around her in a hug, but she was alone. Somehow, she knew instinctively that Mary, her heart and her spirit, was there with her, and delighted for her. A few tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away. “Miss you,” she whispered into the silent room, then quickly went back to work.

* * *

“So,” Mycroft drawled as Sherlock took a seat opposite his desk, “here to shout abuse at me for my interference in your personal life?”

Sherlock tilted his head and considered it. “Mm, no, actually. I’m here to thank you.”

His brother’s eyes widened. “Indeed?”

With a roll of his eyes. “If everyone is going to look at me like I’ve sprouted an extra pair of ears whenever I thank them, I may stop altogether.”

“It is not the offer of thanks in general that surprises me, Sherlock,” he said, “but rather the offer of thanks to _me_.”

Sherlock allowed that, giving a quick nod of his head. “I suppose that’s fair. But while I must ask that you stop the meddling _here and now,_ ” he emphasized with a slight glare, before softening his expression, “I am grateful for this particular instance.” His lips curved into a smile. “The outcome is… well worth the trouble.”

Mycroft looked rather pleased with himself. “I am glad of it. Truly. Though I have sought to influence you away from emotions and relationships, I can see that they have strengthened rather than weakened you. And,” he added, “if it were to be anyone, Doctor Hooper is certainly the best candidate. A bright and cheerful woman who cuts corpses for a living? She couldn’t be more perfect for you if she tried.”

“She is perfect,” Sherlock agreed with a wide grin. “And thank you for using the proper address, for once. I know you slip intentionally just to goad me.”

A very slight smile appeared on his face. “What are elder brothers for?”

A moment of understanding passed between them, expressing brotherly affection without either of them saying it outright. It was saved (just) from becoming awkward by the arrival of Mycroft’s assistant. She nodded at Sherlock by way of greeting, and moved swiftly to Mycroft’s side. “The car is ready and waiting for you, sir.”

“Thank you, Anthea,” his brother smiled at her. “Why don’t you take the rest of the evening off? You’ve more than earned it. Incidentally,” he turned back to Sherlock, “the idea to give you and Doctor Hooper a little _nudge_ was Anthea’s.”

“We’ve been over this,” she rolled her eyes.

“Oh, come now,” he laughed. “Give yourself some of the credit, my dear.”

 _‘My dear’?_ Sherlock watched the exchange with mounting interest.

“The idea was all yours, and pretending otherwise will not change the facts. My only involvement was to advise against the subtle approach.”

“There you have it,” he lifted an eyebrow. “Credit where it is due.”

Rolling her eyes again, she took a step back toward the door. “Will you be needing anything else, sir?”

Something flashed in Mycroft’s eyes, something quite familiar now to Sherlock. He was fairly certain he himself had worn the very same expression, years ago, one night in the darkened lab at Bart’s. Molly had quietly asked him what he needed. He hadn’t realized at the time just how true his answer had been. He needed _her_ , always had. And now, the same need was reflected in the eyes of his elder brother.

All of this, he saw in less than a second, then he watched Mycroft slide on his usual mask of indifference. “Thank you, no, that will be all, Anthea.”

With a parting nod of her head, she left the room. Sherlock watched Mycroft’s gaze trail after her until she reached the door, at which point he looked at his desk and began absentmindedly shuffling papers around. “I took the liberty of informing our parents of your plan regarding Eurus. They have yet to reply—in fact, I rather suspect they are avoiding me—but I would imagine if they disapproved, they would have made it known.” When Sherlock made no response, he looked up once again, and a confused frown knit his brows together. “What on earth are you staring at?”

“Not a thing, _brother mine,_ ” Sherlock smirked. “Merely observing, that’s all.”

His eyes narrowed. “I highly doubt it’s nothing, or you wouldn’t be smirking like that.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “What can I say? I’m happy. Love drunk, I believe is the phrase. High on the endorphins and pheromones and—”

“Yes, I believe I have the idea,” Mycroft cut him off, shifting in obvious discomfort. “Well, if that is all, you may see yourself out. I have business to attend to.”

“Of course,” he rose to his feet. “Thank you again, Mycroft.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft replied with a nod. “Do try not to cock things up with Doctor Hooper.”

Sherlock ignored the barb and bit down on the tip of his tongue to keep from spewing deductions, or simply laughing outright. He turned on his heel and walked briskly out of the office and through the silent corridors of the Diogenes, maintaining his composure until he had exited the building, at which point he chuckled deep in his throat. _Oh, this is too easy,_ he thought with glee, then quietly laughed again at the confused stares he received from various passersby. With a new spring in his step, and an idea brewing within his mind, he made his way toward Baker Street.

* * *

“What are you smiling at?” Molly asked suspiciously, though her own lips were quirked up.

Sherlock set his chopsticks and Szechwan chicken on the coffee table, still smirking. He didn’t bother trying to cover it up, partly because Molly would know better, but also, surprisingly, because he wanted to share it with her. He’d allowed himself to be completely open with her, and miraculously, instead of feeling trapped and vulnerable, he felt _liberated,_ and it made him want to share everything with her.

And besides, if anyone deserved to be included in this, it was her.

“I spoke to Mycroft today,” he began, his arm draping casually along the back of the sofa behind her.

Molly raised an eyebrow. “Did you give him the third degree for meddling?”

“Actually, I thanked him, but that’s not the point. The point is, he’s in love.”

“What?” she snorted. “Mycroft? The ‘Ice Man’?”

Sherlock scoffed. “He’s no more made of ice than I am of stone. He feels, just like I do, but he’s incredibly stubborn when it comes to accepting them.”

“Imagine that,” she deadpanned. He narrowed his eyes at her, but they shared a quiet laugh, and his arm slid more securely around her shoulders. Molly leaned into him, releasing a happy sigh. “Go on, then. He’s in love, is he? With whom?”

“His assistant.”

Molly gave another snort. “No wonder he’s being stubborn about it. He probably hates being a cliché.”

“That,” he allowed, “and he was the one telling me that ‘caring is not an advantage.’”

She grimaced up at him. “God, I remember hearing him say that. I wanted to slap him right there.”

“You should have. Imagine the look on his face.”

With a giggle, she settled in closer to him. “Well, it’s nice that Mycroft is in love, and I like you sharing things with me, but why did you tell me this?”

“Because,” he met her eyes, his own glinting with mischief, “we are going to give him a taste of his own medicine.”

Molly had suspected that would be the answer, considering the nature of the brothers’ relationship. An automatic refusal made its way up her throat, but died at the tip of her tongue. Mycroft’s intentions had been good, and the result was overwhelmingly positive—she wanted to thank him herself, in fact. And what better way than showing him just how happy one could be when in love with another person? And if he got his pants in a twist over it… well, he really had brought him upon himself, hadn’t he?

She matched her mad, genius boyfriend’s expression, feeling a thrill of anticipation. “Where do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so… I’m not going to promise a sequel, but I’m also not discounting the idea. I’d love to write a Mythea version, though obviously it would have to be a little different, because no way would Mycroft fall for his own tricks. If I find the inspiration, I’ll do it, but we’ll see. Thanks again for reading! Comments are like little bites of cheesecake—utterly delectable, and I can’t get enough of them!


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